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May 2016
gold grass, purple flowers
a white butterfly, flutter–whirl–
–not even may showers
can bring dead rivers back to blue

birds speak, spilled wind shudders
and gleaming ghost water mutters
as I sit, shy still and wonder
what this place was years before

before houses, metal fences, and red curbsides
before children learning and hoping
before everything went dry
May 2016
written about the dried-up creek to the right of my school
fireindigo
Written by
fireindigo
187
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